


Jeeves Gets Dragged To a Jazz Club

by clearinghouse



Series: Bertie and His Childhood Heroes [1]
Category: Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Class Differences, Comedy, Crossover, Fluff, Jazz - Freeform, Jealousy, Jeeves POV, Jeeves and Wooster Exchange, M/M, New York City, Psychology, Roaring Twenties, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-19 21:56:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10648836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clearinghouse/pseuds/clearinghouse
Summary: An avid reader of Mr Wooster’s nonfictional works calls at Mr Wooster’s New York residence, and eagerly invites both Mr Wooster and Jeeves out for the night. This reader turns out to be none other than the famous biographer Dr John Watson, retired; and Jeeves isn’t especially pleased to discover that a particular friend of the doctor will be tagging along.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [synonym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/synonym/gifts).



It may be generally said that me and others like me entertain a special devotion to our lords and ladies. The relationship in question is not one like that of the factory worker and his self-made employer. In that unromantic breed of employment, one works for the money’s sake, and money is the only connection between employer and employee. I have found this to generally be the common mode of employment amongst the Americans, who have no inherited titles or estates, and among whom most of those of affluence are self-made, or else are only a generation or two off from someone who is self-made. 

The standard reference American marvels at the charm of the British grandiose estates, the knighted ‘Sirs,’ the high-numbered ‘Dukes,’ the royal family, the royal navy, and even the Royal Mail. In that country there is no concept of aristocracy, or it is very diminished. Meanwhile, my world is filled with it. There is more respect for distinctions of class. No one is more alive to this fact than those of my station and upbringing. Servants who have lived almost alongside their titled masters since birth develop for them a certain faithfulness, and their own sense of belonging and self-importance, unparalleled in the hearts of the factory workers.

As a general tendency, we take pride in our work for our masters. We earnestly care for them and their interests, as they do in us and ours. There is structure, and there is meaning. We find the work rewarding in itself, and experience little in the way of independent ambition. Social mobility is simply not as natural a concept to us as it is to our cousins across the ocean. I admit that it I was astounded, therefore, when Mr Wooster first asked me why I do not try to become Prime Minister; why should I, after all, wish to remove myself from my own honourable and gratifying position?

All of this is neither good, nor bad. It is only my own generalization of one part of a culture’s psychology. Mr Wooster has sometimes made reference to this psychology as it is expressed in me. He calls it the Feudal Spirit. I have found it to be as fitting a name as any.

The above digression is not relayed for nothing. It is relevant to the narrative that follows. It must be understood that my station in life never posed any difficulties for me, and that I was comfortably accustomed to living in a world of class differences. That is, until a childhood hero of Mr Wooster’s visited him in his New York home, and set into motion the upset of the familiar balance between master and valet. 

Sometime in the years of the peak of that small economic and social boom which centred itself in the United States between two periods of infamously less prosperity, I found at the door of the flat an inoffensive older English gentleman, of medium build, wearing a moustache and a dark brown bowler hat. There was a quiet dignity about him, like that of a military man. 

“Mr Wooster’s residence,” I informed him. 

The man seemed to recognize me instantly by my manner, though he could not be sure of it. “Would you, by chance, be Mr Jeeves?”

His overly-respectful choice of nomenclature disturbed me. Gentlemen ought not to refer to members of staff with prefixes to their surnames. Wasting no time, I was quick to restore a sense of order to our interaction. “Yes, sir,” I replied, “but I should prefer that you call me Jeeves.”

“Oh, do forgive me. If that’s what you’d prefer,” the man said with good cheer. “It’s a terrific pleasure to meet you in person. I’ve read all about you. Are you as great a marvel as is said? I must admit, you are somewhat younger than I expected you to be. But that’s no matter of importance. May I shake your hand?” He extended his reach. “My name is Dr Watson. Retired, of course.”

I had not expected any such visit. At the beginning, I had thought that his face was familiar; now there was no doubt in my mind of this man’s identity. I cordially shook his hand, though it was not at all a gesture that I am accustomed to being asked for by a gentleman. I made it quick.

The old doctor was all cheerfulness. “Is Mr Wooster in?”

“Yes, sir. You may deposit your shoes and hat here. Right this way.”

I had left Mr Wooster at his writing desk. The young master was as avid a reader as a writer. Lacking much in the way of imagination, he wrote most commonly about himself and his own adventures, as perceived through the barrier of innocence that seemed to prevent him from digesting anything of a really upsetting nature. More than once have I myself taken a perusal of his works, only to find that he had fundamentally misunderstood something that had occurred. Nonetheless, I usually liked his interpretations better than the reality. Under his pen, murky dramas became bright comedies. 

“A Dr Watson is here to see you, sir.”

“Oh, rather?” He whirled from his chair, rising to meet his guest. Though a diffident young man by default, Mr Wooster is usually more than equal to fit the role of the entertainer. It was never hard for him to pull himself from his work on that account. “Hello! Dr Watson, is that what you call yourself? Why, that’s a grand name to have!”

Genuinely puzzled, Dr Watson asked, “A grand name?”

“Dr Watson, I mean,” Mr Wooster answered with a straightforward grin. “I’m sure the first thing that lots of people ask you is if you brought Sherlock Holmes with you!”

The joke didn’t quite hit home. “I did not bring him,” Dr Watson replied. Either the doctor misunderstood Mr Wooster’s misunderstanding, or the man boasted a character of admirable patience. “I believe I should have been expected?”

Mr Wooster shook his bed. “Not a bit!”

“Oh? I’m terribly sorry, then. I had asked a mutual friend, Mr Rockmeteller, to inform you of my visit. I told him how I wished to meet the writer of the Jeeves stories. In a previous correspondence, Mr Rockmeteller had given me to understand that you were welcome to visitors. He was the one who gave me the address.”

“Oh, well, that explains it. Your whatsit must still be in Rocky’s postbox. He doesn’t check for post often.”

“I beg your pardon, then. Should I come back at another time?”

“No, no, stay! Always glad to meet someone who reads my bally things.”

“On the contrary, Mr Wooster, I should not call them by such a name. I find that your works make for refreshing reading, amidst a sea of somewhat more pretentious pieces. Your open and genuine love of life is superbly uplifting.”

“Oh? Thanks awfully.”

“I do confess, you and your man are both so much younger than I imagined,” Dr Watson said. “You have recorded so much in the way of light-hearted excitement, for so few years lived. My excitements have been less routinely light-hearted, and farther between. All the same, I encourage you to continue. I have found writing to be one of the most rewarding occupations a man may take up. It has the power to immortalize one’s adventures in ways that one cannot predict. I am something of a writer as well, by the way, when I am not engaged in medical practice, though I do not write now as often as I once did.” 

Mr Wooster was all grins. “Oh, rather? Always good to meet one’s peers. Fiction?”

“Only nonfiction, I’m afraid,” Dr Watson said, with an uncertain tone, as if he had been posed a question that should not have been asked. Tactfully, he changed the subject. “What brings you here to America?”

“Nothing especially. Seeing the sights, enjoying the jazz, and what have you.” I happened to know that the young master was actually avoiding unwelcome interactions with his aunt. “Yourself?”

“I am touring the more popular locales of the country with a friend. But what a coincidence for you to mention jazz! I had mentioned this in the letter, though of course I know now that my letter was missed. I had wished to extend an invitation for you to join me at a jazz club for dinner. The reviews of that style of American entertainment are generally very positive, and surely there would be no better place for one to become acquainted with a budding young writer while overseas. If it is not on too short notice, would you and your man fancy a dinner with me and my friend at a jazz club? I had made plans to have our outing tonight.”

That was an unusual choice of eating establishment for such an interview between strangers, I thought; but the unusualness in the choice of establishment paled in comparison to the baffling condition that I should join three gentlemen at a table.

“Jeeves, too?” Mr Wooster blithely inquired. He does possess some sensitivity for class differences, even if it is not as keen as mine.

“Yes, I should prefer his company, and my friend also wished that Jeeves should come.” Dr Watson turned to me. “He is very interested in troubling you for your intellectual methods.”

This was not an enticement. It is very probable that I frowned at the doctor’s request. To sit for a meal at the same table as my employer was, of course, keenly unthinkable, to say nothing of my displeasure at being made a curiosity by an unofficial detective of infamous renown. “I’m afraid I must decline your generous offer, sir,” I said.

“Are you sure?” Dr Watson sighed. “That is a pity. My companion was convinced that you would go. He is more familiar with the customs here; he assured me that, in America, an employee may sit with his employer for a lunch, and it is not unusual to do so. Is that not so?”

“I am not American, sir.”

Dr Watson could find no argument. “Yes, I suppose that is true.” It was obvious that he wished to say more on the subject, something with which to change my mind, but this was a man who was accustomed to not having his way in a conversation. “No, I understand. It’s not as if the real man behind the character in those novels is an actor I can invite to dinner. You have your duties, and it might be awkward for you to come. Well, should you change your mind, I’ll not rescind my invitation. We’ll keep your seat open for you.”

“That is very generous of you, sir, but I do not expect to attend.”

“That’s all right, that’s all right.” Dr Watson nodded and smiled without resentment.

It might have been my imagination, but a helpless sigh from Mr Wooster’s corner could have indicated that he was disappointed by my decision. It would not have mattered; I stood by my right to not go against my station without just cause.

Not long after that, the good doctor departed us. Mr Wooster offered that I might fetch him a drink, so that the doctor could be drawn to staying and providing more of the welcome distraction that guests can always be trusted to bring, but he informed us that he had some business to take care before the evening’s activities and bade us goodbye until the next meeting. Mr Wooster saw him off cheerfully; I kept myself polite, but proper. As much as I was charmed by Dr Watson’s kindly demeanour, it goes without saying that someone who is to be a close friend of my employer cannot also be an intimate acquaintance of mine.

Halfway through his visit, however, I had realized a danger that should have entered my mind as soon as I had recognized the character of the doctor. On his way out, I was able to fit in a single question to our visitor: “Excuse me, sir, but may I inquire as to who suggested to you that you should meet Mr Wooster? Or did you arrive at the idea independently, as a devotee of his works?”

Dr Watson had laughed heartily. “Oh, no, I would never have thought of it, in all likelihood. It was actually my companion who came up with the idea. And a brilliant suggestion it was! He knew that we’d be stopping nearby in our travels, and of course he knows that I enjoy Mr Wooster’s writings.”

I had nodded, revealing none of the suspicion firing in the grey matter. So, a retired detective was on my young employer’s tracks, for reason or reasons unknown, and moreover, he was using Dr Watson as the means of getting closer to him without attracting attention. 

The very next second, I did not voice it, but I had changed my mind. Mr Wooster’s security would be improved by the company of a guard to watch over him tonight. 

–

Mr Wooster and I arrived by cab at the Sleeping Cardinal at nine. Waiting for us by the door was Dr Watson, and the friend of whom he had spoken. I had no trouble identifying him on sight. His hawklike nose, sharp features, and tall stature all gave him away, even before we drew close enough to see the youthful, gleaming perceptiveness in his eyes, surrounded on either side by aged crow’s feet. He wore a top hat and a thick coat, and was clean-shaven. 

Mr Wooster greeted, “What ho! What ho!”

The two gentlemen caught sight of us. “Hello, Mr Wooster!” Dr Watson waved us over. “Please allow me to introduce my friend and colleague, Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

“Uh, Bertie Wooster. Good show.” Mr Wooster’s eyebrows knitted furiously, while the he shook hands with the other man. “He called you Sherlock Holmes? Was there a fancy dress party this morning, and crime was the theme? You’re missing the funny deerstalker, you know, and the calabash.”

This amused Mr Holmes. “I suppose I did neglect to take a pipe with me.”

“Well.” My employer was at quite the loss. “There’s no need for newspaper names with a chap like me, you know,” he tried. “I’m not a police officer about to bung you in for thirty without the option. And I’m not about to write checks in your name, or anything.”

Dr Watson was at a loss to parse the meaning of this message. “I beg your pardon, Mr Wooster?”

“I believe there is a misunderstanding in progress here, Watson,” Mr Holmes said kindly. He bowed his head to Mr Wooster, as if apologizing. “We have not given you false descriptions. We are, in fact, who we say are. I take it from your disbelief that you have read something of me in one or two of Watson’s biographical sketches, or perhaps you have come across our names as a casual mention in the popular literature. Granted, I am only a humble beekeeper these days, excepting the occasional monograph on the art of detection.”

“Eh?” It was plain that Mr Wooster was having some trouble making the necessary leap. “Then, you mean to say, you really are the man with the funny hat? Eh. I should warn you, I’m not as big a chump as others who will go nameless make me out to be. What did I have for breakfast this morning?”

“Dear me, if I had known there would be doubt, I would have brought a letter of recommendation,” Mr Holmes demurred, in a tone of voice that my employer often refers to as soupy. “My powers are not so great as you imagine. Except that the meal likely included bacon, eggs, and the odd kipper, all dutifully served by your man here between the hours of ten and eleven, I cannot say what you ate.”

As true an enabler as he is rumoured to be, Dr Watson was not able to hide a bashful sort of smirk that came to his lips.

Mr Wooster didn’t follow their private joke. However, Mr Holmes had been correct in his answer, and at this, the young master’s brow began to furrow. 

“If you’ll forgive the interruption, sir.” I was not so easily impressed, and it was short work to set my employer right as well. “In your journals you make frequent reference to your preference for consuming bacon and eggs at thirty past ten, and also to your predilection for not deviating from routine.” 

“Oh.” Mr Wooster nodded to himself more so than to me. “You’re right, Jeeves. I asked for an obvious thing, didn’t I? Too obvious.”

Mr Holmes smiled. “Then it also too obvious, Mr Wooster, that you are not a supporter of the temperance movement here in the States?”

Mr Wooster didn’t see the nub quite yet. “Eh? Oh, I don’t know. I thought most chaps from the home country weren’t too keen on it—”

Audaciously, and in a violent flash, Mr Holmes shouted, “Stop!” Mr Wooster jumped in his shoes; Dr Watson was also startled; I was sternly unmoved. The wily old man issued no apology for his rude outburst. “Ah. You’ve brought enough to go around, I see?” he said. “That hip flask making a slight ripple in the top of your right trouser leg must be full, you see, or there should have been a noise.”

Mr Wooster’s innocent, unassuming demeanour grew thrilled. He blinked with wide eyes. The image of a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming motor vehicle would suggest the proper tone of Mr Wooster’s emotional state. 

There was something of a resigned shrug from Dr Watson. He, unlike his partner, had the kindness to try to reassure the young master. “You mustn’t think that we’ll mind that, my good man! Why, the American doctors of my acquaintance are all known to prescribe brandy at the drop of a hat.” I respected him. He had sympathy. 

Such was a welcome relief to the other’s uncommon disrespect. “Yes, it is a common potion, isn’t it?” Mr Holmes hummed. Then he continued to speak as if nothing were at all amiss or unusual. “It is, naturally, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Watson has collected all of your books in print, and has been good enough to read parts to me on occasion. You and your manservant make for a very unequaled team. Not to mention that I took it as a compliment to see my own character referenced in one or two of your pages. But of course, we are all more than mere characters in stories, are we not?”

Speech had departed from Mr Wooster’s faculties. He gaped like a fish out of water at the two men. He glanced between them, and then after this had gone on for some time, he stared at me, with the hopes of finding a comrade to commiserate with in his shock and surprise. In that vein, however, I was not his comrade. 

“Ah, now, you see this, Watson?” Mr Holmes gave a light laugh to his friend. “We’re in luck; Jeeves has come after all.” He offered his hand to me. “I am honoured to meet a man reputed to not only possess but also to make eminently productive so fine a mind.”

I cannot say that I had much regard for him. I studied his every move, waiting until he would let slip the motive behind tonight’s absurd farce of his design. It was not that I was concerned that Mr Holmes would find ultimately Mr Wooster guilty of any significant criminal behaviour; my chief worry was that Mr Wooster had accidentally embroiled himself, or had been embroiled by his looser friends, into some affair, and would require extricating by the end of the evening. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’ve come in your work attire, then, I perceive?” Mr Holmes went on. “You might have come dressed as a gentleman. As you are, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb in the club’s crowd of finger rings, gloveless hands, and silver tie pins.” 

If my posture could be said to have been moderately rigid before, it became as severely straight as a flag pole. “I do not make a habit of, as it were, flying under false colours, sir. If such poses an insurmountable difficulty to you or to the club—”

Mr Holmes shook his hands good-humouredly. “No, nothing of the kind! Pray don’t up and leave us so soon as this. I assure you, I have arranged that there will be no hindrance.” Some private joke must have occurred to him, because he smirked in amusement. “Individuals who find themselves sequestered into a party of mine tend to find that they are given a little extra leeway in matters of decorum.”

A curiously fond expression from Dr Watson suggested that the doctor had had a good deal of personal experience in that department. “In any case, perhaps now that we are all together,” the doctor said, “we should find our table, Mr Wooster, Jeeves?”

Mr Wooster’s jaw was still somewhere three feet beneath our feet. I have discerned first-hand that Mr Wooster is not a youth easily given to hero worship, and yet to be put abruptly before two of his dearest childhood idols was too much for him. There was a diffident look of unworthiness to his regular and handsome features. It was altogether a dumb and awestruck air, one that, in all of our years of association, he had never given me.

“Sherlock and Watson! The real Tabascos!” he exclaimed belatedly. The lack of consistency in his spontaneous choice of names did, I regret to say, briefly affect my well-ordered disposition to a minor degree. “I say! I say! What?” He proceeded to give each of them another handshake, with an eagerness that was ten times what it had been. “Honoured to run into you! Have followed your career with great interest since I was lad!” he exclaimed, twice; once for each man.

Mr Holmes and Dr Watson were the epitome of gentle understanding, and they accepted the young master’s giddiness without qualm. A shy Dr Watson went so far as to convey that he was unaccustomed to such enthusiastic admiration; Mr Holmes, on the other hand, did not give an indication of such, but only endured Mr Wooster’s idolizing in a flagrantly presumptuous manner that may best be called regal and long-suffering. 

I, for my part, had enough self-awareness to realize that I was not a little envious of how the young master’s eyes sparkled for them.


	2. Chapter 2

The portion of the evening that succeeded our meeting and preceded the musical entertainment largely consisted of a meaty dinner, cigarette smoke, and affectionate babbling from Mr Wooster that could best be described as being directed to the table at large. When Mr Wooster was not avidly retelling some of his favourite cases of the two older men with rampant use of metaphor and anthropomorphizing, the three of them together discussed various aspects of America and travel in general. Mr Holmes and Mr Watson admitted to being staggered by the liveliness of New York; Mr Wooster countered by claiming, in many more words, that the city was an experience that made for the correct kind of staggering, when one knew one’s way around. The three men in their well-formed evening wear laughed and cursed freely; Mr Holmes and Dr Watson were drawn to Mr Wooster’s friendliness, and Mr Wooster in turn was very charmed by them. He asked after them, wishing to know where they were staying, if they’d already seen the most popular plays, et cetera. 

Throughout the meal, the young master’s attention and admiration was fixed on the beekeeper and the doctor. More than once, he sang their praises, extolling Mr Holmes’s famous reasoning ability and Dr Watson’s keenness on helping others. It pains me to admit that I resented how these two strangers had won the young man’s heart.

I kept my own participation in the social occasion to the bare minimum. I did not like to be in the club, even in the darkened rear of it. Like all others of its kind, this club catered exclusively to those few ladies and gentlemen with the wealth or prestige to satisfy a high standard, and it is a standard that valets fall short of. If the club had been an English one, I should have felt that my presence was violently contradicting at least one of the principles set forth for gentlemen’s personal gentlemen by the law of the Junior Ganymede. The fact that the club was American, and the additional condition that my presence might be characterized as an eccentric demand of Mr Holmes, partially allayed these concerns, enough for me to not leave immediately. Furthermore, I was able to avoid attention from the other attendees by maintaining a low profile. Nonetheless, I was uncomfortable.

Dinner was another obstacle. It was physically challenging for me to work the arms, hands, fingers, and facial muscles required for the consumption of food and beverages while in a seat which was located next to the seat that was occupied by Mr Wooster. At first I preferred to abstain, but I ceased this line of action after it grew apparent that my refusal to dine caused Mr Wooster not a little unease. For his sake I was ultimately moved to eat, though I did not eat much.

Dr Watson was across from Mr Wooster, and Mr Holmes was across from me. I kept careful observation over them, biding my time until Mr Holmes would throw up his hands and confess Mr Wooster innocent of whatever secret suspicion he was investigating.

Unfortunately, conversation eventually moved into a very different area, one that I had not foreseen.

“The Americans may not be wholly improved by their Prohibition and their secret societies,” Mr Holmes was saying, “but one cannot help respecting their passion for modernism. I’m referring to their work ethic. Back home, the new rich are quickly dismissed, and put off in a class of their own, but here, they rule. A little capital, a little luck, the right scheme, and the brains and perseverance to make it work; that’s the making of the American.”

“Not the ones I know,” Mr Wooster put in glibly. “The blokes who come round my flat must have missed modernism’s rousing bite. Touchers of the first order, one and all.”

Dr Watson chuckled at Mr Wooster’s unintended humour. That was a reaction to be expected. My master is largely unaware what singular talent he possesses for spreading delight and good cheer.

Neither was Mr Holmes immune. He smirked at Mr Wooster’s flippant words. “Indeed?” Conspiratorially, he leaned forward, eyeing me. “Tell me, does this circle of traditionalists include your man, Jeeves?”

I frowned. That he was reducing me to a caricature of myself in his mind, I did not doubt.

Mr Wooster glanced at me as well. “Huh? What about Jeeves?”

“It strikes me,” Mr Holmes continued, “that this country ought to be just the place for someone like Jeeves to elevate himself, if he wished to. A man with his natural talents could become anything he wished.”

“Oh! You’re not the first to notice that. I’ve often asked myself why he doesn’t become prime minister or something. Jeeves is a spot more qualified than the usual candidate, and a goodish deal overqualified for me, I don’t mind saying!” These unexpectedly kind words from my employer had a pleasant effect on me.

“Prime minister?” Dr Watson huffed. “That would be of the home country, I take it? I’m sure that even Jeeves, bright though he is, couldn’t become an American Prime Minister.”

Mr Holmes clapped the doctor on the shoulder. “Ah, perhaps not, Watson. Perhaps not. But there are a good many other ways for one to climb the modern world’s social ladder, a ladder which is so often out of a fellow’s reach in the older parts of the world.”

“It may be as you say, sir,” I replied coldly.

A heated glare from a pair of quick eyes challenged me. “Such a rise could give you better rewards than that extra ten or twenty quid that comes your way at the end of Mr Wooster’s stories, I shouldn’t wonder,” Mr Holmes pressed further, making himself an eminent nuisance to me. “You’re as invisible as any servant, when you could have had a family of your own by now. As it is, you hardly get anything but the odd tenner for your outstanding mental exertions, and certainly nothing that really compensates for your efforts.”

This was a remark bordering on opprobrious; yet before I could speak, a few soft words came as a soft interruption from my side. “Now, hold on a minute,” was the gentle message. “Um, I don’t think you’ve got the picture all right.” 

Mr Holmes raised an eyebrow in Mr Wooster’s direction. 

A diffident and accommodating soul under most circumstances, Mr Wooster shyly twiddled his thumbs. “Jeeves gets something out of it, I think. I mean, he wouldn’t stick around if he didn’t. He’s not stupid. The modernism thingummy sounds all good, but it doesn’t have to be everyone’s cup of tea. Some chaps just prefer the long-familiar status quo, what?” His beautifully bright eyes appealed to me. “Or, am I talking through my hat, Jeeves? I’ll defer to your correction. You know best. Always, but especially about yourself.”

I was amazed. “Not at all, sir.” Just like that, the irritation that the retired detective had sparked in me fell away. No one in recent memory had ever been so accepting of my conservative and passive nature. I nodded. “That was kindly spoken, sir.”

Mr Holmes and Dr Watson surveyed us with a renewed interest. There was a particular fondness to their expressions, as if we were their children, and they were proud to see us playing nicely with one another. Mr Holmes especially appeared enthralled by how seriously we had taken the subject. But really their opinions made no difference to me; Mr Wooster’s considerate understanding was plenty sufficient. And neither of the two dignified men made any further comment concerning my social ambitions, or lack thereof.

–

But before the night was out, I would come upon a notion of what Mr Holmes’s game really was, and it was a cruel one.

Following the conversation related above, there was a remarkable improvement to the manners of the party’s least congenial member. Mr Holmes went so far as to ask me for my own feelings on America. I gave him my answer. On this subject, it happened that I was of the same mind as Mr Wooster: the excitement of the country, while gratuitous to some, is enjoyable to others in small, measured doses.

It was not long after the dinner was finished when the lights were dimmed and a hush filled the club. We turned in our chairs. At the front of the establishment, the jazz music commenced; it featured a sparkling lady as the lead to an array of brass instruments. It was lively, agreeable, and delivered to the effect of suggesting that life was too short for modesty and self-restraint, and therefore one should indulge oneself whenever convenient. The music, however, is not what I remember best of the evening, for the plain reason that it was not where I paid my attention.

For, coincidentally to the club’s official performance, Mr Holmes was putting on a miniature show of his own, and his was the more noteworthy of the two.

Not five minutes into the music did Mr Holmes lean toward Dr Watson to whisper into his ear. It was a very close leaning; when Mr Holmes moved, they both turned their heads, and their hands groped delicately at each other’s arms, drawing each other into a brief and noiseless dialogue. Moreover, this proved to be a recurring phenomenon. Mr Holmes’s attention flitted frivolously from the stage to the doctor, and back to the stage, and back to the doctor again. This was not a bother to Dr Watson, who was brought by his old companion’s private interruptions to an honest smile, more often than not.

It can only be that Mr Wooster noticed their ill-mannered game as much as I noticed, yet, by all appearances, he thought nothing too remarkable of it at the start.

My sensibilities found some hope for the old men when there was a prolonged lull in their whispering. Even though Mr Holmes had, by that time, decided to move his chair to be much too close to that of his friend, I was optimistic that they had tired of their childish behaviour. This bullish outlook was in error.

There came a break to the carefree tone of the music: the melody stretched itself low in pitch and metre, and the singer developed a sudden interest in either forbidden love or unrequited love. It was impossible to say for certain which was the case. I merely gathered that she was bemoaning the futility of her attachment to some unspecified individual. 

Dr Watson was substantially affected by her display of emotion. He became sad and pensive, in a way that he had not been during all of our brief acquaintanceship. Before the first of the brooding numbers was through, there were tears in Dr Watson’s crinkled eyes.

Mr Holmes turned to him, seeming sympathetic, and their arms came perilously close together. Undoubtedly, hidden by the cover of the table, one gentleman’s hand was resting on top of the other.

It may be said that it is part of my psychology that I tend to be drawn to working out, in my brain, the causes of the curious effects that I witness in the regular course of a day. Dr Watson is a man given to emotions; the topic that upset him was that of impossible love; I comforted my uncertainty in the situation with the plausible supposition that he was weeping for memories of his late wife.

But this supposition did not last long. The room was dark and loud, and there was no one else watching them; therefore, when Mr Holmes surreptitiously brought Dr Watson’s hand to his lips for a chaste kiss, I was the only third party to witness it.

I betrayed nothing. In any event, I turned too frigid to betray anything. Dr Watson had probably not detected my gaze, which was for the better. However, though there was little outward indication to this effect, I knew for certain that Mr Holmes knew what I had seen. 

One occasionally hears rumours of unspeakable, impossible romances. One feels, upon hearing these rumours, that such idle gossip is neither interesting nor important. When these rumours are made fact in one’s company, one should expect to take it at face value, and think no more of it. One should not expect to be overcome by a rush of anger. But I was overcome by a powerful flood.

Mr Holmes had found another way to make a fool of me. 

I don’t know why the retired detective was ceaselessly determined to make me unsatisfied with my station. Since mocking my contentment in my career was not successful, he had moved on to mocking the glaring flaw in my contentment: my own impossible, out-of-place affection for the large-hearted young man who retained my services. 

My fingers curled into fists. During the entire musical phase of the evening’s activities, Mr Holmes had been showing off his intimacy with his companion. The whispers, the touches, the laughter—this was what he and his friend had been sharing. This was the same species of intimacy that was forever closed to me. By my very own self-defeating scruples, I would always be distant from the man who was dearest to me.

Mr Holmes hadn’t arranged for this dinner among the four of us for a chance to pigeonhole Mr Wooster; it could only be that I was the one he was after. But what outrageous vendetta could so famously discreet an individual as Sherlock Holmes have against a manservant with whom he had no connection?

Then, to my infinite amazement, a kind whisper breezed through my ear to rescue me from my dark mood. “Jeeves, are you quite all right, old thing?” It was my employer and self-styled friend, leaning toward me. “It’s all right to cry, you know. Dr Watson was doing it just now.”

I did not know what to say to such unashamed kindness. I hadn’t expected Mr Wooster to pull himself away from the show on account of worrying about me. And if Mr Wooster had seen Dr Watson’s weeping, had he noticed the kiss as well? I failed to reply coherently.

Mr Wooster misunderstood my shock to be a symptom of an overwrought spectator. He kept himself leaning close to me as he placed his lightweight hand on the white glove of my wrist. I silently stared at the gesture. “Not to offend the feudal spirit,” he apologized, “but it’s no bother! It seems to be the done thing when a bit of support is wanted, what?”

This comment drew my gaze back to the spectacle of Dr Watson and Mr Holmes—just in time to see the latter throw me a clandestine, knowing smile. How a gentleman as good and decent as Dr Watson manages to tolerate this aged rogue for prolonged periods, even I cannot conjecture.

“Is this all right, Jeeves,” Mr Wooster whispered to me again, his worries growing instead of abating, “or am I misreading the circs?”

There is a generous light inside of this young man, which never ceases to shine for those whom he calls his pals. I was a servant, and he, a gentleman; that was the fate that I had come into, and which I had long ago made definite for myself; but just then, while the young master was bestowing his caring on me, I was not equal to denying him. “Not at all, sir. Thank you,” I said softly. It occurred to me a spot belatedly that the saving of face was in order. “I will be better directly,” I promised.

Yet Mr Wooster, as always, was not impatient to return to propriety. He beamed at me most pleasantly. He was entirely, as the expression goes, tickled pink. “Come, come, there’s no hurry about it, old egg!”

While Mr Wooster was glowing so warmly at me, I could not hate the deafening smugness on the face of Mr Holmes as much as I was inclined to.

–

At the conclusion of the entertainment, Mr Holmes declared the show to have been excellent. His sentiment was seconded good-naturedly by Dr Watson. Mr Wooster was glad that our fellow Englishmen had enjoyed the jazz style of music, of which he himself was already a long-time aficionado. I weighed in only to my usual terse extent that the music was not without its advantages. 

Once we’d gone outside as a group, and before I was asked to summon a cab, Dr Watson and Mr Wooster jumped to exchanging kind words, handshakes, schedules, and phone numbers. It was while each of these writers was jotting down a list of dates in his own small notebook that Mr Holmes pulled me quietly aside, and asked me, “May I have a word with you, Jeeves?”

I was not sanguine. “Sir.”

In reply to my cross reticence, he bowed his head. “Ah, yes, I understand your reluctance to speak with me. I regret that I have treated you rather shabbily all around. If you will be so kind as to allow me to explain myself, at least, if I am not to be forgiven?” He had become a completely different person. Unlike before, he spoke gently, and with an attitude approaching humility. 

Finding my patience, I nodded.

He was relieved. “It was Watson who brought the activities of you and Mr Wooster to my attention,” he said. “It is no lie that Watson is fond of your adventures. He first read a couple of them to me several months ago. Your extraordinary feats as referenced in his works made me instantly suspicious of you and your assumed trade, although I did not say as much to my good friend. For some time, I pondered my doubts and kept them to myself, without taking action. Then, our little American holiday this month provided for the perfect opportunity to meet you both, and to thereby ascertain whether my suspicions were valid. I really am too old for this business, I admit, but I never did lose the investigating habit! I suggested the notion of a personal meeting with you and Mr Wooster to Watson, who was thrilled by the idea. He took care of the rest himself.”

“But what precisely were your suspicions, sir?”

The man eyed me with a sudden fierceness. “You, Jeeves, were a mystery to me, a thick mystery that hounded me as relentlessly as a dog!” Mr Holmes declared with the regular passion of the enthusiastic hobbyist. “I could not make heads or tails of you. Why, I asked myself, would a man of such splendidly rare mental ability to rival my own, of the sort who confesses to familiarity with underworld activity and who knows tricks that more properly belong to the arts of burglary and kidnapping, be satisfied with employment to a young gentleman such as Mr Wooster, when he could so obviously make a name for himself in any other field? I suspected that you were not what you appeared to be! You could not be. There had to be some secret to you.”

I did not condescend to answer this. He must have already learned the answer, because he was visibly bursting to tell me what he had deduced for himself.

“Let me put my findings in one light, first,” he said. “Some men need not find work, while the rest must. That is the way of the world that we are all born into. If your master is happy and jovial in his well-pressed tailcoat, and not too demanding of you, then you are happy to occupy so much of your very valuable time with the domestic work that keeps him upright. You are an employee, he is the employer, and, for your lot, you have not done poorly at all by the arrangement of serving a young man without dependents. All of this is what guides you to keep your station, and to keep it with the dignity and pride of an honest conservative, or am I mistaken?”

I thought it was accurate, more or less. “You are not mistaken, sir.”

“Then you are!” Mr Holmes retorted sharply, to my surprise. A passionate fire kindled hotly behind his features. “Something else binds you to him! It is not merely the devotion of the servant, or the benevolence of the master! It is a deeper, richer thing. Yes, you find meaning in your work; but no, you are not in it for the work’s sake alone, as you and Mr Wooster seem to believe. I know this, because I saw the truth in you both tonight. I know, because the tie that connects you to him is the same tie that binds me and my companion together.” 

I did not wish for him to go on and parade my hopeless attachment to Mr Wooster in front of me, and which I had not been able to hide from him. I spoke as tersely as I could, with the hope that he would presently desist. “I am already aware of the bond to which you refer, sir.”

“Oh, are you, really?” he huffed. “But do you not see your bond only as an unsightly obstacle, the one great meddler in your otherwise orderly existence? Ha! I say that it is no obstacle. You must think that you find such great meaning in your work _despite_ your fondness for your young man, but listen to me when I tell you that you find such great meaning in your work _because_ you do it for him!” He let out a short laugh. “I was like you, once; I thought that my own career was my meaning in life. For too long, I was blind to the true reason why I stayed for so long, content and happy, in those Baker Street rooms. Be less foolish than we were, I implore you, when we were at your young age. It will save you years if you do!”

And with that, he clapped me on my shoulder—an act that my serious demeanour discouraged most gentlemen from engaging in—and he stormed off within the space of another second, to rejoin the other two.

I looked over my shoulder at his receding back, and at the friendly Dr Watson, and at the animated Mr Wooster. As I watched them, the recent image of Mr Holmes and Dr Watson holding hands and swapping private thoughts came to me unbidden. Except for the change that, in their places, I imagined a master and his valet, exchanging vulnerable words and sneaking caresses outside the lines of sight of others, trusting one another as only lifelong partners do.

But the situation was very different for me than it was for Mr Holmes. Mr Holmes and Dr Watson are equals, while I am Mr Wooster’s servant. Not that I resent it. As I have tried to make clear, I enjoy living under his roof, working for him, protecting him, looking after him, impressing him, making meals for him, dressing him, while managing his daily affairs—in fact, I enjoy everything about being his personal gentleman, save for not having the freedom to love him. I had accepted this fate; but Mr Holmes’s words set me to wondering.

Would it ever be possible for a man of my tight, traditionalist psychology to brace himself for change—to make Mr Wooster happy in ways that no valet could? I didn’t know. It was a profoundly difficult leap for my mind to make. I couldn’t quite see how it would work. Perhaps it was an idea that would require time and careful thought.

For the last time that night, I cursed Mr Holmes—because, out of the best of intentions, he had made me restlessly discontent.

I did not stay away from the party for many more minutes. Upon returning to them, I was, I confess, disturbed to be so energetically welcomed back by all three men. A lifetime of learning to fade into the background was temporarily stripped from me by their shared camaraderie. Mr Wooster, most of all, was glad to see me. 

I noticed that there was a small sadness in Mr Wooster’s eyes at the impending end of the outing, underneath his profound satisfaction. “This was a corking time, Jeeves,” he said, and he poured feeling into every word. “I’m not sure we’ve ever shared a table for more than ten seconds before tonight. It was something completely new, wasn’t it? Oh, I only wish we could do this more often!”

I wanted to ask him if we was the four of us, or him and me. 

“Well,” Dr Watson said, “I’m afraid I can’t last the night as well as I could in my youth, but Holmes and I will remain in New York for some days. If you are not occupied, we should be delighted to call on you again. I’ve had a very pleasant evening.”

“As have I,” Mr Holmes added. “We’ve not made any concrete plans.”

“Ah, what luck!” Mr Wooster lit up like fireworks on the country’s independence day. “I say, then, an encore is an order! What do you say to the dodge, Jeeves?” His high spirits stopped here, and he faltered. “Eh, tonight was already a big pusher on the feudal spirit, wasn’t it? I don’t mean to drag you along in the back seat. I know this socializing with the boys isn’t your thing.”

“Indeed, it is not, sir,” I said. “Nevertheless, I think that I will—consider it.”

“Oh! Really?” The young man grinned widely. “Very good, Jeeves!” he exclaimed.

Mr Holmes and Dr Watson were also pleased. They gave each other soft nudges, and then hooked their arms together as they bade us their until-the-next-time farewells. Even though Mr Wooster was considerate of my sensibilities enough to not hook his arm in mine as he dispensed complementary goodbyes for us both, I personally found that the notion was not nearly as objectionable to me as it had been earlier that day. 

Therefore, it was not as difficult for me as it should have been when I calmly and quietly added my arm to his own, binding myself to him in a steady, sure hold. 

In the three faces that instantly reared to behold me, I read three very different reactions: confusion, satisfaction, and a winningly handsome combination of exhilaration and adoration that all but stopped the beating of my heart. Though I take pride in my work for Mr Wooster, at that moment I became conscious of the acute sense of belonging that he roused in me—a sense that I had never felt while in the employ of any another man. 

I managed to give the dear young man a small smile. “If I may, sir?”

He, by way of being startled by my actions, laughed his baffled joy aloud. “Oh, right ho, Jeeves! You know best!” he said, and my infatuated spirit smashed its cage with an ardent lurch when his arm pressed unwaveringly against mine.

End.


End file.
